Poets Without Armour

Writing the good word
Spilling out the spoiled milk
Keeping those curdled tears
Alive
Doing it well
Sweating the dolorous trail
Satisfaction guaranteed
Each time
Without fail.

The quick fix
Poetry
Seductively sombre
Heroin, Cocaine
Down on the ground
Of addiction.

Thank you for the pleasure
Muse beyond my frail measure
Thank you
For this treasure
This vicarious leisure.

It's what it is
Hashish for our souls
Forgive me
For I am trifling.

When I write
For myself
My petty cash
Of losses
And hoard of
Stolen kisses
The art of all my artifice
Empty heart
Of darkness is,
The list of all my
Sordid profit
Only sibilance hisses,
Of rapturous near hits
And easy charlatan  misses.

I love this rush
You afford me
Words are panacea
Placebos that heal me.

But it's a walkabout
Without aim
It's an egg hunt
A merry mad March rant
Easter fun and games.

And I forgetful
Dishonor
The greatest poets
Who lived by the pen
And the words
They wrote
Was not for the
Wasting
Or idle poetasting
But for the saving
Of listless thirsty
Men.

Theirs
Is the Kingdom
There's is the glory
Posterity
Rendered
At Mortality's door.

I dream amazed
Eyes blazing sunlight
Lightning the shadows
Scrawled on their
Page.

I read dazed and dizzy
Realizations trembling
My eyes blurred
My heart enlightened
Heavy head on the floor.

These poets entered death
Like grand Mythical heroes

For generations to come
They're the Guardians
The Guards at the door.

Between worlds
Between universes
Multi varsities of Cosmos
Intergalactic paths
To all
Eternity's stores.

I salute the poets
Who've rhapsodized
Timeless Nightingales of
Human treasure lore.

For they shall be
Inheritors
Bequeathing to us
Elysian fields
And the well springs
Of all new lives
And times
To come.

Their eyes saw
Beyond thresholds
We didn't know
Existed.

Their pain was
Mere crucible.

Their Muse
Mighty Catalyst of
Refinement.

Their words
Spiral double helical
Melodious incense
Infinite ripples
On nameless shores
Their words roar
In despair
Whispering prayers
Inspiring us to pursue
Divinity in ascent.

(c) Amrita Valan 2017

My Muse And Guardian

Lost so much in passing
The regrets never die
The past cannot be accepted
Sleeping dogs won't lie

For all the best of the worlds
I have lost
I have gained a little wit
Abrading the softness
From the heart's core and pith.

I'm now a huntress
A moon goddesss
Chasing imagination
For  dilettante pleasure
Forgive me for I cannot
See starry skies
And wonder at my leisure.

It's like second childhood
Narcissus dominant
Necrosis imminent
Making love
To corpses in coffins
Of decadence.

My laughter bursts like
Fireworks
Across shimmering metallic Black
The sky is a sly Black widow
Wearing lace
Frothy lies upon her
Neck and back.

I'm beautiful
Like my tattooed
Affectations
I'm shallow
As the imagery
Of my thoughts

Queen Guinevere
No I'm not
Nor,
The lady of Shallot

The world loves
A caption
I can build me up
Or tear me down
To a cartoonish caricature
Of a larger-than-life
Cut out.

But it's all tricks and treats
It's forever mirrors and smoke
Inside the shell
Of my nutty show house
Died a child
Who never spoke.

Or she lives perhaps
With saddened eyes
She lives up to her
Rapacious lies
Merry eager
Wizened wise
Her Muse demanding
She pays this price.

(c) Amrita Valan 2017

House of Joy

Poetry's is power
Soul healing flower
To help the living
Succour the dying
And nourish those
Lost in ivory towers

From coast to coast
prayers we post
Poets at your
Beck and call
By human behest
We exist
Break your shackles
Shake your cages
Arise
Even if you
Must fall.

We are the living proof
Of human Truth
Sorrow must be borne
The fruit of love
From insanity
Must be torn.

Know thyself
And with thy
Knowledge be
Beacon upon
The Beach
Flaming
Lighthouse of
Lonely heart wreck sea.

Flamingo kiss
And fount of light
Wreath of thorns
Bleeding love's delight.

Don't die
Unless it's hard
Be always
The Fountainhead of
The Avant-garde.

Poetry is foolish
Savage neurotic
It's the neurotransmitter
Of wondrous bliss

Poetry paves the yellow
Brick road
Through dumb walls
Of obstacles.

We must be poets,
Heroic all
We must sing
Each our saga
In the Halls
Of puny men
Till the last one of us
Standing tall
Join in the universal
Clarion call...

And we are the poets,the prophets,
The soothsayers, the dream catchers,
Raining blood ordained bliss
Brooding upon each Holy spirit
And the muse of each
To use
And Amuse
To dream
And redeem
The only possible
Promise
Never the shameful
Fear of Fall,
A house of Joy
Not built on cards
Crooked dealt, 
But
Eden upon Earth
For all.

(c) Amrita Valan 2017.

A kiss for Anushka

Where do we go from here?
Just a sinking below the soil...

What do we do now?
The stars have died...

Who lost control?

But their distant light
Has just arrived
With the promise
Of newcomers
On fresh ground.

The skies forever
Hunting grounds
Flowering milk and honey trails
Sending off dreams
Where agony swells...

From whence all life's
Primal mysteries
Come calling.

Click your heels my friend
Come back home,
This enchanting night
To us,
Sweet princess of poetry
Please....
Your word
Should have been
Armor for all disease.

I won't sleep nights
Thinking on
Words that engage
Like towering wands
Something much more
Than I
A divinity
So deep inside
The soul shivering, opens
Its inner eye.

Princess of poetry.
Friend blessed indeed.
There's only so much
Souls can take
And lovely lips and fiery heart
Now stilled on
Unknown lands and lake
Your leave of us
Is the last haunting poem
Of elegant absence.

Seemingly
Without regrets
Without loud noise
Fire and explosion
No verbal crescendos
At departure
The Leave taking
Too dear
To be borne.
May all our words
Adorn your grave
With prayers.

I'm, I cried.

I'm, I cried. 😊

I'm just
An elusive hour
Folded into
Faintest fragrance
Of a flower,
That you held
An eternity
In your palms.

Your fingerstalks
Twined mine
Wooing my essence.
I was blessed
By the Divine
In your presence.

Incomprehensible sure
The universe allures
Spiritual flora and fauna
Forever endures.

I saw into nothingness
My petals like veils
Against harsh sunlight's reality
Cool as moist breath on woody barks
And leaves
You inhaled me
My substance
marrying yours.

And then came
The Fall
Inevitable curtain call...
Encores...
On request only?

Dead leaves and frail petals
Lifeless and wilted
Purposefully floated
Courtng and coaxing
Serpentine waves
Of riverine Deltas
Nihil destination
Sans desperation
Freedom
To be freed
From attachment.

But how content
In morning's memoirs
Of being held
Velvet on your
Satin skin.

Was it the same
For you,
As it was for me?

Did you float
With me
Joyous, abundant
Into the wild blue sea?

(c) Amrita Valan  2017

A Fictitious Tale

Tamara was a slip of a girl
She looked delicate
She was ethereal
Her coterie of devoted  lads
Gave her the guard of honour
And honours she had

Avidly received,
With gratitude deceived
Her heart unused to pain
She could only
Simpering pretend
All coyly, eye lashes aflutter
That her heart was
soft as her skin
Like butter

Luminous Tamara
An elegant pearl
Of a girl
I wonder
Sometimes
Did she ever, have her
Fall?

Her radiant smile
Her sideways semi comatose
Smile
Was so full of sly charming
Wiles.

I hope not.
Under all her artifices
(Probably learnt at the cradle)
She was really
Without any guile.

Tamara
A charmer with
Symphonic name
Hope she dwells
In her own hall of fame

Last I heard
She was surfing
Amidst Aussie
Or New Zealand
Whales!

Perhaps Sharks,
But that's another
Toothsome Tale.

😊
(c) Amrita Valan 2017

Some Infuriating Thoughts

Should people, in positions of power and authority, themselves possessing a superior education, employ sophistry, and feed people less fortunate, (And perhaps simpler and more naive), a mishmash of spiritual gobble de gook, guilt complexes and promises of blissful eternal reward that cannot be quite validated? Isn't that taking unfair advantage in the name of service?
I write this sincerely, having mulled over it for the longest time.

Rules regulations and framing protocols wouldn't be necessary if religion wasn't organized, (like the Mafia where you kneel to kiss the Godfather's ring), but a personal experience and revelation.  Instead of a Church mentality, (read herd mentality), young men and women should develop sound moral values on their own. It comes from within.
I do believe ultimately the Church does a lot of philanthropy and good work, but it kills the initiative to be good for it's own sake, dangling carrots of salvation and sticks of damnation in a primitive Pavlovian manner of conditioning.
Insecure and vulnerable young girls aspiring to be "Brides" of Christ, can be persuaded to see Christ/Father figures/ Saviours in the holy man garbed  in white, unfortunately not always so holy.
I was once told that the reason we cannot, having chosen to follow Christianity, also choose to pursue the best beliefs and precepts of other faiths, by being offered this convoluted piece of logic by a would be proselytizer.
"Would you tell your husband, you'll be his wife from Monday through Thursday, but then go to another man for the weekends?"
I flippantly replied, yup, if that was my original contract and definition of marriage, between me and my hubby.
But then I smiled and poured salve because she meant well.
I believe sadly that many who bear witness to their faith hold this up as the Trump card of their arguments.
But wait a minute here already!
Our relationship with God or His Son is not merely limited to spousal. That's limited simplistic and unnatural. It's just not confined to our parameters of earthly experiences. It's all that and More.
So it's maternal paternal filial spousal and well above and beyond our imagination.
So why should God in all His/Her  greatness demand exclusivity, in a childlike narcissistic manner, when He already encompasses ALL?
If I see Christ In Krishna, you think God hasn't covered all his bases?
You must be out off your mind.
Or trying to tell me not to use mine.
Because that would be like heresy and blasphemy.
The impudence to believe that one can be good without conditions, or conditioning, through personal experiences and human choice.

Enlightenment isn't Group Think, and God, Christ or genuine men of the cloth would not require groupies.

Perhaps service to humanity should be for it's own sake, with no strings attached. And perhaps the premises of one's own belief should be postulated, with conviction, (and evidence if any),but not with glib persuasions, and preferably always with qualifiers.
The essence of any fair and decent debate is after all the same openness to receive as to give. 😊

3rd March

The sky is a blank blue wall.
Obtusely withholding meaning.
And this day of third March
Holds secrets in treasure chests
Pearls spilling from white clouds.
My son's legs thin as matchsticks
Dangling from the balcony
His body like soft white bread
Flabby on the brick red tiles
And his utterly cute baby
Pumpkin head
Curious charm
Casual benevolent.
I hear that soft breath
Rising falling
In his hope chest
Of abundance.
The sunlight's abundance
Bathes him in youthful
Spring.

My mad March hare
Grow tall and strong

In the fall
You'll discover.
Your own Treasure chest
Of memories.
Till then
Time Traveller  of
The zodiac
Bridging quasers and pulsars
Filling up black holes
Of redundancy
Leap through worm holes
Of faith
Those are opportunities
To render opposition
Into binary stars
Of duality.

Go far,
So far that
If I may
Never see you again,
I will know that
It's because you
Know best
How to be right besides me
Without giving it away
The cosmic game
Life or Illusions
That we play.

Wilfully
Or willy nilly.

My son
We are human
We accept the challenge
Duelling destiny
Like heroes
Without seconds
Without moderation.

Life makes me
Wonder
It exhausts me
Leaves me
Tearful fretful
And wistful.

It leaves me
In wisteria lanes
Of desperation.

Life
Leaves me forever hungry
For itself.

I'm my son
Who lives
To tell.

(c) Amrita Valan 2017